


Shake Me Into the Night

by Anney



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Angst, Champions League, English Premier League, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-05-12 00:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19218226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anney/pseuds/Anney
Summary: “We’re going to Madrid!” Jordan sings along, excited. “And that corner, you sneaky bastard! I could kiss you right now!”The energy shifts in the room and everything seems to still for a moment. Trent is staring at him in awe.“Really?” he whispers.~The last weeks of the 2018/19 football season through the eyes of Jordan Henderson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Fire" by Kasabian.

When he hears the final whistle, he can barely stand up on his legs. The crowd's roars and his teammates' cheers seem miles away, white noise under the deafening sound of his drumming heartbeat.

He almost has to pinch himself to make sure he's not dreaming.

Klopp is running around like a crazy man, hugging people left and right, and Jordan is pretty sure he sees him cuddling a couple of Barcelona staff members as well in the middle of his euphoria.

“Hendo!” the manager yells, as he crushes him in his arms and Jordan holds onto the man just so he can keep his balance. “Well done, lad!” He pats his back enthusiastically and then he’s gone, loud laughter trailing behind him.

Gini drops on his knees in the middle of the pitch, arms stretched out to the sky, thanking whatever God there is up there like he can't quite believe that it was actually him, a mere mortal, that just did _that_. That just came out of the bench at half-time to effectively erase the 3 goal lead that Barcelona had won at home.

Gini and Divock are the real gods, Jordan thinks, at least tonight. The improbable heroes, to anyone who doesn’t watch close enough to know how hard they have worked to get here, how selflessly and unreservedly they give their heart and soul for this team whether on the pitch or on the bench.

And Trent. Trent with that cheeky trick he pulled is the embodiment of willpower. Focused, when no one else was looking. Brave, when no one else would dare.

His gaze is drawn to Trent, who is running back and forth on the far side of the pitch, clapping his hands as he thanks the fans. In the distance, it seems to Jordan that his body his glowing, a strange mist surrounding him like an aura. Jordan watches fondly as Trent stares into the crowd in the stands, running his hands through his hair, hands grasping at the short curls and shaking his head incredulously like he's struggling to make sense of reality.

Jordan can't take his eyes away from his tiny figure, and he can't quite see it from where he stands, but he imagines his wide grin and his shiny eyes. He feels his heart swell with immense pride.

In the middle of his daze, Jordan is dragged into an interview. He struggles to put together words that form actual sentences and he doubts he is making much sense. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Trent sprinting in his direction, a little fireball heading his way, and his mind tricks him into feeling warmer. He can't help but smile, and he musters whatever strength he has left to catch Trent when he flings himself at him, yelling at the camera.

Jordan keeps him next to him as he attempts to conclude whatever he was saying to the camera. He keeps one arm tightly around his waist, basking in the warmth of the body next to his. When they finally break apart he is surprised that his clothes aren't scorched.

They don't get the chance to properly talk to each other until the celebration has mostly died down.

Klopp had made him see the physio for his knee when he noticed he started wobbling as the adrenaline and painkillers wore off, and Jordan comes back an hour later to an almost empty dressing room. Virgil and Joe pass by him on their way out.

“Most of the lads have headed to Ox's to celebrate,” Joe says, and Jordan nods. He feels knackered, his knee hurts and he should go home to his bed, but he is too hyped up to sleep anyways.

“I might pass by, then,” he replies.

“Make sure you bring him with you,” Virgil says, nodding his head towards the dressing room. “He might stay and sleep here if we let him.”

Virgil and Joe share a laugh as they leave, and Jordan comes into the room to find Trent sitting in a corner, still in his game kit, scrolling down on his phone.

“So you’re going to miss the party to stay on twitter?” Jordan chuckles.

As he hears him, Trent stops whatever he's actually doing, getting up and enveloping him in a tight hug. This time Jordan is caught by surprise, and his knees nearly buckle under his weight.

“Whoa there!” he laughs, trying to steady himself.

“Hendo! I was waiting for you!” Trent yells almost hysterically in his ear. "Can you believe it?! We did it! We're going to Madrid!” Jordan hugs him back. His raw energy and happiness are contagious.

“We’re going to Madrid!” Jordan sings along, excitedly. “And that corner, you sneaky bastard! I could kiss you right now!”

The energy shifts in the room and everything seems to still for a moment. Trent is no longer hugging him, but he's staring at him in awe, smiling tentatively, still close. _Too close._

"Really?" he whispers, eyes wide and lips parting, plump and slick, teasing him. Daring him.

And later Jordan will pass it off as a joke. He will blame it on exhaustion and exhilaration, or maybe on the amount of painkillers he just took.  He brushes his thumb softly over Trent’s bottom lip, before slotting their lips together, lingering for a few seconds too long for his lies to be convincing.

He pulls away, slowly, his heart thundering in his chest. _Shit_. He barely has time to think of what to say, before Trent's lips come crashing back to his with full force. They kiss like they need it to breathe, lips bruising and eager.

Trent holds onto the back of his neck, brushing his fingertips at the base of his scalp, sending shivers down his spine. He feels his tongue tracing his bottom lip, teeth scraping lightly over it, coaxing his mouth open.

Jordan feels feverish like he can't escape the heat that seeps through his skin everywhere they touch. He doesn't want to either. He feels like Icarus, drawn to the sun, bound to fall at any moment. He pulls Trent closer, hands slipping seamlessly to the small of his back, holding on with everything he has got.

He loses track of time as they share open-mouthed kisses, sloppy and wet and hot, and Trent tastes so good it's intoxicating. Their shirts come off and Trent's back hits the wall with a soft thud, his arms encircling his waist and pulling him close, closer, until he's pushing Trent up against the wall. His hips shift involuntarily against Trent’s and he moans in his ear, the sound going straight to his cock.

It dawns on him then where he is and what he is doing, and he puts some space between them. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_. They stare at each other, both panting heavily.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Jordan mutters, running a hand over his face. _What am I doing?_

Trent looks like he might protest, but he bites his lip instead. Jordan’s head is spinning and it feels like his heartbeat might actually pierce his eardrums. He turns his back to Trent, focusing on picking up their discarded shirts and willing his hard-on to go down.

“Jordan,” Trent says softly, and it pains him to hear his voice so small and sad when just moments ago he was loud and elated with the win. And he just ruined it. Trent speaks again, reaching out, fingertips brushing his arm. “Jordan, this-” But his touch burns and Jordan can’t do this, he can’t stand there and watch as their friendship crumbles because of him. He needs to get away until he can think, or rather, simply forget.

“This was a mistake,” Jordan says, resolutely staring at the ground. “I’m sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”

And then he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote this story for myself and decided to let it out into the world. I'm so sorry for that.
> 
> It's mostly written, so I will update as I edit the new chapters.
> 
> Feedback is welcome :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong language warning.

Melwood had always been one of his favourite places in the world, Jordan thinks as he walks onto the pitch in the nearly deserted training centre.

Ever since Jordan came to Liverpool, it had been his second home, more than any other place in the city. He would spend hours there, lingering after practice, training alone after dark. He liked to feel the cold mist seeping through his bones as he pushed himself harder, bargaining with himself, _just half an hour more_.

The staff at Melwood had become his family away from home. They looked after him, cared for him and offered comfort during his hardest times. When he was injured, they would nurse him back to health. When he missed his home town, they would make him warm soup just like his mum's. When he wasn't getting enough minutes and the threat of a loan hovered over his head, they offered him the words of encouragement he held on to.

He drew his strength and inspiration from everyone he met there, from Stevie G to Carol and Caroline in the canteen, and he hoped to provide the same inspiration to those younger than him. Melwood had made him stronger, and by the end of 2015 Jordan made first captain, and he felt ready to face any challenge he came across.

He had not been ready for Trent Alexander-Arnold, though. 

Jordan first met him in the very same spot he is standing now on one of those late summer nights. As he came out from the training centre onto the darkened pitch, he saw the young lad setting the ball down carefully over the right corner, his body illuminated by the harsh white floodlight. Jordan watched as he hit the ball and it arched perfectly as if controlled by magic. His breath hitched in his throat as the ball grazed the left-most post of the goal, mere inches from scoring directly.

The boy huffed, cursing under his breath, and as he moved to pick up another ball, momentarily looking up, he noticed he was not alone. He ran towards him, lanky and surprisingly graceful, holding the ball under his arm.

“Sorry, I didn't think anyone was here at this time,” he apologized, exhaling deeply. His breath left a smoky trail against the chilly air. “I'm Trent,” he introduced himself, extending his right hand.

Jordan recognized him from a few U18 matches he watched, although that was a while back and he looked older now. He took the hand he was offered, shaking it. “I'm-”

“Jordan Henderson, I know.” Trent interrupted, beaming at him. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he nodded, chuckling at his obvious enthusiasm. “Are you in the Academy?,” he asked.

Trent looked unsure, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. “I'm meant to join the first team this season, actually,” he said.

“Oh. Congratulations.” Jordan studied him with a cocked eyebrow. “Nervous?”

Trent scoffed, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “No.”

Jordan eyed him mockingly. “Really?” he teased. “Let's see what you've got, then.” He motioned at the ball still propped under Trent's arm. “Play me one on one.”

He let the ball drop to the ground, holding it with his foot, staring at him defiantly. “What are the rules?”

“No rules. Just try to get past me.”

Jordan focused his eyes on the ball, following its every movement. Trent moved slowly, calculating, controlling the ball with his right foot as he approached him. He surged swiftly to the left, dragging the ball along, but the trick was too obvious, and Jordan could see him slide his foot over the ball and touch it to the right with the outside of his boot. _Nice try_ , he thought as he shifted his weight to his left, ready to intercept the ball, except it never reached him. Instead, Trent flipped it again, sending it flying through the space between his open legs.

“Ooh!” Trent exclaimed hiding his self-satisfied smirk behind his closed fist.

Jordan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Oh, so that's how it's going to be?” he teased, too amused by the younger man's cheekiness to be upset he was just nutmegged by his newest teammate. “You're on.”

Their little game quickly turned into a ruthless nutmeg challenge. They played against each other for close to an hour, each too stubborn to give up. He quickly realized that Trent was driven and competitive almost to a fault. He grinned smugly whenever he managed to beat him and whined when Jordan got the best of him. Jordan should have been annoyed by his brattiness, but instead he found it funny and almost endearing.

“Oi, ref!” Trent shouted when an exhausted Jordan resorted to grabbing his shirt to prevent him from moving forward. “That’s cheating!”

He tried to wiggle out of his hold, but Jordan was stronger, and momentum made them fall to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs. They both moved to lie on their backs, laughing.

“Do you give up?”

“Never.” Trent answered, his eyes closed and out of breath.

Jordan laughed, getting up and standing over him, grinning. “It's late. We'll continue this tomorrow, yeah?” He offered him his hand to help him up.

Trent nodded, letting Jordan pull him up to his feet. Jordan dragged him into a half hug, patting him on the back.

“Welcome to the team, Trent.”

Trent's place in the first team consolidated quickly and so did their friendship. He became a regular presence in his late-night practices, and they pushed each other to work harder with their impromptu challenges and playful bickering. They grew closer, bonding over shared fears and ambitions, long afternoons playing FIFA and easy banter.

He wonders when it all started to go downhill.

 

*

 

They don't talk about _the incident_.

In fact, they barely speak to each other at all.

They win against Wolves but still lose the title race, and even though Jordan already expected it, it's disheartening to see that miracles don't happen every day.

Sadio scores twice and ties with Mo (and Aubameyang, as Jordan later finds out) for the golden boot. It feels right and, after the game is done, Jordan throws one arm around little Sadio's shoulders and rubs his head affectionately, whispering, “Please don't leave us, we can't do it without you.”

Sadio gives him a sad smile and shrugs, looking into the distance where Mo's daughter is kicking a ball into the net to the delight of the fans in the Kop.

“Naby still needs help.” he says after a while, and Jordan is not sure if he is saying or asking him.

“Yeah. He needs you,” he replies, nonetheless. “We all do.”

Trent gets two more assists and breaks the record for the most assists from a defender in a single Premier League season. Jordan fully expects him to be gloating about it, pestering Robbo with a smug smirk, and he is surprised to walk into the dressing room to find him silent, sitting on the bench with his shoulders hunched and a sad frown on his face.

Jordan is torn on whether to talk to him, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach that has little to do with finishing second. It had been fairly easy not to think about their kiss in the whirlwind of the end of the season. It soon became clear that Trent had been avoiding him, barely acknowledging him in training, and Jordan felt both guilty and relieved that it gave him an excuse to pretend nothing had happened. However, seeing Trent so dejected makes his throat constricted and his whole body tingles with the urge to console him.

He forces himself to gulp down the lump in his throat and settles for a pat to the back of Trent’s neck, a bit too forceful to be considered affectionate. His head snaps up, looking at Jordan through glazed-over eyes.

“Snap out of it, Trent,” he says, his voice soft but remarkably steady despite his own sadness. “We did all we could. We go again next year. We’ve got to focus on the Champions League now.”

He turns around, rummaging through his own locker, pulling his shirt over his head. The truth is he can't look at Trent right now, his own frustration threatening to spill out in tears.

He knows Trent is a scouser, through and through. He has been a fan since before he could walk, before he could kick a ball or deliver perfect crosses to his teammates. A fan who wasn't even born when Liverpool last won the league. All season long, Jordan has seen in the younger man's eyes the dreams of thousands of fans. The excitement, the hope that came with a near perfect first half of the season. _Surely this is our year_ , he thought then. They all did, feeling more confident and prouder with each week on top of the league. Then, the horror of watching a 7-point lead slip through their fingers. City. Leicester. United. Fucking Everton. Frustration. Anger. And that treacherous little spark of hope, bound to end in disappointment.

Above all, he can't stand to see the disappointment in Trent's eyes.

“But we didn't, did we?” Trent's voice is barely a whisper through his teeth, but his voice his hard and seeping with anger. “We could've done more. We had it, and we lost so many points.”

Jordan inhales sharply, still not looking at him. He is desperate to avoid this confrontation, all too aware that they are surrounded by the rest of the team. “It's over now, we got the Champions League to-”

“It's not the same thing!” Trent's shouts, standing up and kicking an empty water bottle. “That’s not the fucking point!”

Jordan reaches out after him, stilling him with an iron grip on his wrist. “I know that,” he says in a low growl.

He can feel the weight of his teammates' stares on them. No one else dares to speak. “We all know that,” he says, louder, tightening his grip around Trent's wrist past the point of comfortable. “You don't get to do this, Trent. You don't get to be a fan right now, and you don't get to bitch about what could have been.” _Please_. He tries to convey his silent plea through his gaze.

“We're a team,” he continues, giving his wrist one last squeeze before letting go, turning to his teammates. “We take our victories as a team, and we take our losses as a team. We had our best season ever, and we did so together. I know we all wanted the title, and in the end, we came up just short. But we don't get to moan about it. We have an obligation to our club and our fans to pick ourselves up and try harder. We do it next week. We do it next month. We do it next year. We go again.”

He hears his teammates cheer and Milly picks up where he left off with his own speech.

Trent stares at him in silence, clearly fuming. He rubs one hand over his wrist where the imprints of his fingers can be seen, white against smooth chocolate skin. Jordan can see he still wants to pick a fight and shoots him a warning glare. _Don't._

The full blow up doesn't come until later, as Jordan follows Trent after he leaves hurriedly, guilt overcoming his resolve to avoid confrontation.

“Trent, wait,” he pleads, and Trent slows down, marginally so, with his back still turned to him in the long corridor. “I’m sorry,” Jordan says. He looks at his wrist, now curled into a fist by his side. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Trent snorts, unamused, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Yeah, I’m getting that a lot, lately.”

He frowns, trying to grasp the meaning behind those words. He reaches out to him, desperate to stop him and ask him to explain. He doesn’t expect it when Trent suddenly turns around, and Jordan nearly runs into him.

“What do you want from me, Jordan?” His words echo too loud in the empty corridor, his jaw set, and he is staring straight into Jordan’s eyes through unshed tears.

If Jordan could speak over the lump on his throat, he would tell him that he wants nothing more than to brush those tears away. He would tell him that he wants desperately, painfully, to see him laugh, all toothy grins and shy smiles that Jordan has grown to love. He wishes he could have won them the league, just so that Trent could get everything he dreamed of. He wishes he could take them back to last week, to the moment just after the final whistle against Barcelona, when they were celebrating wildly, and he hadn’t fucked up their friendship, and Trent was the happiest he had ever seen. But instead Jordan chokes and hesitates, and the silence stretches between them for too long.

Trent scoffs. “I thought so. Just a mistake, right? Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your way.” He starts to turn back again but pauses, sending him a death glare that makes him tremble. “Oh, by the way, nice little speech you gave in there. How many times have you done it by now? Just another year of Captain Jordan Henderson winning us fuck all, innit?"

His whole body goes numb as the words register in him brain, and the air leaves his lungs at once like he was just punched in the stomach. In fact, a punch to the stomach might have hurt less. He knows his own face is betraying how hurt he is, and he can feel his hands starting to shake. Trent's stare falters, and he almost seems ashamed, frowning and looking at the floor.

“Is that what you really think?” He doesn’t realize he has started to cry until he looks down and he sees the fat drops fall on the ground between his feet.

“Jordan-,” Trent chokes, and he is crying too, but Jordan doesn't want to hear the rest. _He can’t_. All he hears is the shattering sound of his heart breaking. The walls seem to be closing in on him, and Anfield never felt so small and claustrophobic. He needs to get away from here, to some place where he can think and breathe again.

“Fuck you.” He shoves him aside and all but sprints towards the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may notice I took some liberties with the timeline of events, because it suited the story better and this is fiction after all :p
> 
> find me on si-senor-lfc.tumblr.com
> 
> feedback is welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

_I'm sorry._

_I didn't mean it. I was angry and took it out on you, which was totally unfair and I'm so so sorry, Jordan.  
_

_Please forgive me._

_Can we talk??_   

_Please._  
  
_You have 29 missed calls._

 

Jordan is packing for Marbella when his doorbell rings.

He is still clutching a random shirt in his hand when he opens the door and Virgil marches into his house with the same determination with which he walks onto the pitch in every match.

He stares dumbfounded at the defender who has settled down on his couch and seems to be waiting for Jordan to close the door and join him.

“Huh, did we make plans that I forgot about?” he asks and Virgil laughs, shaking his head.

“No, no.” He motions for Jordan to sit down next to him and looks at him right in the eye when he does. Virgil's presence is overpowering, and Jordan feels weirdly like a child who is about to be scolded.

“You need to settle things with Trent,” he states matter-of-factly.

Jordan fights the urge to roll his eyes at the mention of Trent, discomfort sitting in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't want to have this conversation now. He doesn't want to have this conversation _a_ _t all_.

“Everything's fine, really,” he lies, hoping his teammate will drop the subject. Virgil merely raises one eyebrow at him, calling his bluff. He suspects Virgil probably knows more than he should, anyway, given this impromptu visit. Maybe Trent talked to him. _Bloody Trent_. Jordan sighs.

It’s been a week since the last match, and Jordan is still mad. He is mad at Trent, for betraying his trust and throwing his own insecurities in his face. His throat feels constricted as the right back’s words play on a loop in his mind - one little comment that shouldn’t even matter that much. Jordan has certainly heard worse in his life. But mostly he is mad at himself. He can’t shake the feeling that he brought it upon himself when he kissed Trent, crossing a line from which there was no turning back, despite all their pretending.

He has read the texts Trent sent him over and over, and his fingers itch to text back, but his brain fails to provide the right words. How does one express forgiveness when they feel they should be the ones apologizing? But how does he make things right when his own heart is breaking?

“He was out of line. He said some mean things and honestly, I don't feel much like forgiving and forgetting right now,” he confesses, and he doesn't miss the slight panic in Virgil's eyes.  “I will, though. I know I have to,” he quickly adds. _For team unity, if nothing else_. “I just thought I'd let things stew for a while.”

Virgil nods pensively. “Do you plan on letting him know soon? He's been acting like a lost puppy without you lately, and, honestly, it's starting to get on everyone's nerves.” Jordan can almost hear the reproach behind his words. _Fix it_ , he hears. _Fix it before the final_.

Sometimes he feels like he is about to drown under the weight of it all, the pressure of expectations and the captaincy. They are days away from their second Champions League final in a row. It's their chance at redemption, and Jordan can’t help but feel that the responsibility rests in his shoulders.  
  
He can never forget the dreadful feeling after Kiev — desperation, frustration at the mistakes they all made, at their inability to get back in the game, and a sense of utmost failure. He can't forget the criticism either, even if it used to fuel his motivation to improve and strengthen his commitment to the team — average player, mediocre, lack of creativity, doesn’t score often enough, wouldn’t start for any other top six team, he’s heard it all. He bitterly adds one more to the list. _Captain Jordan winning us fuck all._  
  
He has built a dam in the back of his brain, to hold it all back and keep him from drowning in a tsunami of self-doubt, but it keeps filling up, and he can feel its walls starting to crack.

Buried under everything else there's another matter. One he's been trying very hard not to face all week. _Liar_ , his brain shouts. _You’ve been lying to yourself all your adult life_. His head hurts and his eyes keep going out of focus as his brain fights to break through his last standing walls. Memories play out in his retina like old home movies, as he is reminded of an unanswered question.

_When did it all start to go downhill?_

His mind is pulled back to a stuffy club in Ibiza he can't remember the name of. He remembers the music though, too loud and distinctively latin, and the tangy taste of peppermint that stuck to his mouth after one too many mojitos. He remembers it was too hot on the dance floor, and his shirt stuck to his back as he made his way from the bar to the secluded sitting area where his friends awaited, feeling trapped in the heat of the bodies swaying around him.

His head felt heavy and his mind was clouded, muddled by the heat and the alcohol that fuelled their festivities that night. _A bit pathetic, celebrating the fourth place in the World Cup_ , he had thought then. But after the first hit of disappointment had waned, they all felt like they had achieved something that summer, rather than lost. Half of the England national team — those without wives and kids to get back to, anyway — had flown in straight from Russia to start their break with a weekend of carefree celebration.

His memory strains, trying to remember who else was at the club that night, but all he gets are little bits and pieces of drunken interactions. Jesse trying to teach him a very elaborate handshake, hiding his grin behind his hands when he fumbled all his attempts. Eric and Dele bickering over who got to seat on the last available spot on the couch, ending up with Dele stubbornly sitting on top of a disgruntled Dier. Rashford laughing way too hysterically at their antics.

He mostly remembers Trent, and his own realization that he had become hyper-aware of the younger man’s presence, even in his inebriated state. He could easily pick out his laughter over the noise of the club, the sound making his heart feel heavy with something akin to endearment. He noticed every time their knees knocked together as they sat side by side on the sofa, causing little shocks to travel through his body and the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. He noticed the casual brush of their fingers as he handed him a tall shot glass of tequila, sending a pleasant tingling sensation up his arm.

Their eyes locked as Trent downed his shot and Jordan couldn't focus on anything else, his movements as graceful and precise as they were on the pitch. Salt, tequila, lime. _Lick, drink, suck._

He felt heat coiling low in his stomach even though he was still clutching his own shot glass, the liquor untouched. He let his gaze linger as Trent sucked in his bottom lip, a movement he did so often. He chewed on it for a moment before releasing it, pink and glistening, and Jordan wondered what it would be like to chase those lips with his own.

Trent moved closer, leaning against his shoulder, his face burrowed against his neck.

“Are you drunk?” His words came out slightly slurred and muffled against his shirt. Their closeness made Jordan’s head swim.

“What?”

“’m drunk,” Trent mumbled against his shoulder.

He could feel the tip of his nose nuzzling against the skin of his collarbone, pausing there for a second before running slowly up his neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps on its way, until his breath was hot in his ear.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he whispered, and the vibration made his dick twitch in his pants. “I’d much rather have you as captain than Harry Kane.”

His breath hitched. It was not a particularly shocking statement or even a big compliment, but it still made Jordan's heart swell with unfathomable happiness.

Trent settled his head on his shoulder again, and he felt him smile against the crook of his neck. Jordan didn’t dare to speak or move, afraid to disrupt the moment. Trent looked up at him through his eyelashes, assessing his reaction. Jordan held his gaze, closing his eyelids only as he felt lips graze the pulse point on his collarbone, lingering for a few seconds in the tiniest of kisses, wet lips against hot skin branding an invisible burn mark that Jordan could still feel for days afterwards.

“You’re my favourite, Hendo.”

_Was it then that everything changed?_

_Stop lying to yourself, Jordan,_ his brain answers, flashing older images of bright smiles that tugged at his heartstrings, casual touches that lingered for too long, poorly concealed stares in the dressing room that made him long to touch the smooth expanse of skin over his chest or back.

Before that, even. Before Trent. He digs up memories carefully catalogued under ‘Do Not Touch’, of grinding bodies in dark dance floors and messy hand jobs in club bathrooms he dismissed as experiments. 

Virgil's deep voice pulls him back to his living room.

“Listen, Trent is going through a rough time. You know him, he’s obstinate, he knows what he wants. Last weekend was tough on him. He's- huh,” he hesitates as if weighing his words. “He's... disappointed, I guess.” He looks at him closely and his voice softens. “Shit, Hendo. You don’t look so good yourself.”  He pauses, sighing. “You know I’m here if you need me, right? For anything, really, even if just for a chat…”

Jordan merely blinks at him, the words ringing in his head, intertwined with his own thoughts.

_Trent is going through a rough time._

_I wonder where it all started to go downhill._

_He knows what he wants._

_You’re my favourite, Hendo._

_Do YOU know what YOU want?_

_Stop lying to yourself, Jordan._

In the end, it's not as much a realization as it is an admittance of what he has known for a long time.

“I'm gay,” he blurts the words out before he can stop himself.

Virgil's eyebrows shoot up in surprise for the briefest of seconds and then Jordan is being enveloped in a tight hug.

His head is spinning fast, and he starts to panic as he tries to gather his thoughts in order. It’s the first time he’s uttered those words out loud, and it’s overwhelming, both terrifying and liberating all at once. He leans further into the silent hug, welcoming its comfort. His face is flush against Virgil’s chest, and he seeks out the sound of his heartbeat, the steady rhythm grounding him until he feels calmer.

“I'm so proud of you,” Virgil says, and Jordan feels a rush of relief.

Virgil doesn't press him with questions, but Jordan talks anyway, finding it impossible to contain all his repressed thoughts and fears any longer. He tears up as he bares his heart out and Virgil lets him curl against his shoulder, whispering encouragingly and comfortingly, because he understands. He understands that he’s not ready to come out to the world. He understands the implications for his career, the dreadful barriers he would have to face. He understands that he is scared of public exposure, homophobia still too big in football despite all the well-meaning campaigns and rainbow laces they wear. But when Jordan admits that he feels lost, drifting into uncharted waters, Virgil is adamant.

“You're still the same Jordan Henderson,” he says categorically. “Talented midfielder, inspiring captain, with shit music taste and terrible FIFA skills. You’re the most loyal friend anyone can have, should they be so lucky. You’re the bravest person I've met, and, yeah, you like guys.” He shrugs, smiling.

Jordan laughs despite himself, rolling his eyes. “My skills are not _that_ terrible.”

“Passable, at best.” Virgil chuckles. “Everything that makes you who you are won't disappear just because you added two words to your bio. It's a big deal, coming out, even if just to yourself. It's embracing a part of who you are, but it doesn't need to define you and it certainly doesn't change all the other parts.

“It does give you a chance to live more fully, and to love more freely. You should give yourself a chance, Jordan. To love, I mean. I can't think of anyone who deserves more to be happy than you.”

Jordan lets his words sink in and a little reassurance sparks among his conflicted feelings. He wonders if he can let himself be honest with those closest to him — his family, his friends, his teammates.

“Whatever you chose to do going forward, you know we have your back, right?” Virg says. “We always do, no matter what.”

They talk for hours. Virgil is a good listener, and in the end, he feels lighter and surrounded by love and acceptance. Most importantly, Virgil’s words instill him to find it within himself — self-love and self-acceptance. _Maybe there is a little hope for him, after all._

Virgil doesn’t bring up Trent again, and maybe Jordan doesn’t need to explain. Somehow, he thinks, Virgil just knows. Maybe he even realized it before Jordan did.

_I’m gay._

_And I’ve been falling in love with Trent Alexander-Arnold since the day we met._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit nervous about this chapter. Feedback is appreciated, as usual.
> 
> You can yell at me @ si-senor-lfc.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

Marbella is sunny and impossibly hot.

They train for hours under the scorching sun, an endless cycle of drills tied up neatly with a six-a-side tournament that his team miraculously wins. They almost convince themselves that conditioning their bodies to the heat of Spain is the trick that will do the difference, that it alone will erase the nerves and jittery legs and the ghosts of last year.

By the end of the first day of training in Marbella, Jordan is exhausted and drenched in sweat. He lies down on the grass in the middle of the training pitch, closing his eyes for a moment. The noises of his teammates chattering as they make their way to the dressing room and of the staff gathering equipment around him fade away in the background, and the setting sun makes a kaleidoscope of orange spots dance behind his closed eyelids. His skin is pulled tight and it stings slightly to the touch, and he knows his face is probably unflatteringly red from standing too long in the sun.

Jordan lies down like this for a while, feeling his heart rate slow down and the dull burning of his muscles, a pleasant sensation invading him as quietness grows around him and he lets himself relax.

A shadow crosses his face, blocking the orange light, and Jordan opens one eye to see a face standing above him, peering down. He can't quite see its features against the sun, his eyes momentarily blinded by the rays of light that bend around his intruder.

“You're getting sunburnt,” he hears Trent say in a low voice, and Jordan can't help but laugh bitterly at that.

_Can't really escape the sun here, can I?_

The thought is odd, and Jordan suspects it has a deeper meaning that he can't quite grasp.

“Are you coming in?” Trent asks, extending one hand in his direction and nodding towards the pathway to the dressing rooms.

He notices that they are alone in the training pitch, everyone else already gone inside to shower and dinner and lounge around lazily until the gaffer sends them to bed.

Jordan eyes the hand Trent offers to help him up. Or maybe, to shake on a truce. He doesn't take it, not yet.

“In a minute,” he answers, closing his eyes again. He needs to set his thoughts in order to do this right.

He can feel Trent shuffling his feet. He senses his hesitation and pictures him twitching his fingers and biting his lip nervously.

“Can we talk?” the younger man says, and his voice sounds more strained than before.

Jordan opens his eyes and takes in the man before him. His hands are shaking, and his eyebrows are almost fused together in a worried frown. His lip trembles slightly as if he's silently going over what to say and his tongue darts out to wet his lip. Jordan follows the movement spellbound, and he is overwhelmed by his desire to rub his thumb over Trent's eyebrows and turn the creases smooth again.

He fights with himself for control and wishes he could prevent his heart rate from spiking up. His mind is muddled over conflicting feelings of hurt and longing and he doesn't know where to begin to sort them out.

“We're fine Trent, really.” _They are,_ he bargains with himself. “Teammates disagree and fight and make up. No need to drag this on. _”_ That's not him running away from this conversation. _Nope, not at all_.

“We haven't made up, though, have we?” Trent argues and Jordan cusses under his breath at his stubbornness.

Reluctantly, he props himself up on his elbows, and Trent takes it as an invitation to sit down in front of him. He inhales deeply before he starts to talk.

“You never answered my calls and I-,” Trent hesitates, staring at the ground, distractedly ripping off little chunks of grass. “I wanted to explain myself. But there's nothing to explain, really. I didn't mean what I said.”

“You still said it, though.” Jordan grimaces at his own voice, too steely, bitterness seeping through. _Calm down_.

“I was being a dickhead,” he says and it’s so unlike Trent that it catches him off guard and makes him laugh.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Trent smiles a little at that, and Jordan watches as the worry lines on his forehead start to smoothen.

“It’s not an excuse,” Trent continues. “But… I was so mad that day. I was mad that we didn't win the league. I was mad that you hadn't talked to me all week. And you-” He searches for words, and rubs a hand over his hair in frustration. “You were just so calm about it all, so unbothered and distant. I thought I'd ruined us, our- our friendship-,” Jordan gulps down, feeling his own remorse constricting his throat. “- and then I really did that just to try to get a rise out of you.”

Trent's voice trembles and Jordan fights the urge to hug him. Trent takes another deep breath before he continues.

“I just want you to know that I think you’re the most brilliant captain we could possibly have. And everyone on the team will tell you the same. I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise.

“Most of all, you’re my best mate, and I don’t-,” he pauses, looking at Jordan now. “I don’t want to lose you. I'm so, so sorry, Jord. I hope you can forgive me.”

Trent's eyes don't leave his, silently begging, and their pull is too hypnotic for Jordan to look away. Trent is still pulling out little tufts of grass, his restless fingers inching closer to where Jordan's right-hand lays on the ground, fingertips almost touching.

Once again, he feels like he can't breathe, suffocating in the scorching heat and under the weight of the words he can't say and the feelings he's just started to acknowledge.

 _I'm sorry too,_ he almost says _. I'm sorry I kissed you and made a mess of everything. I'm sorry I dragged you into a crisis I couldn't cope with._

He doesn't say it, though, afraid of the inevitable questions he is not ready to face. _Or rather, the answers_ , he muses.

He merely nods and lets their fingers brush lightly. He pats the back of Trent's hand gently. A reassurance.

“We're good, Trent. I really mean it.” And he thinks he does, this time. _I don’t want to lose you either_ , he thinks, and he knows what he has to do. “Nothing is ruined,” Jordan dares to hope, because if it is, then he's sure it's his own fault. He gives him a tentative smile. “And I forgive you.” _Please forgive me too._

Trent beams widely, turning his hand upwards so that their palms are touching, and he closes his fingers around his hand in an awkward handshake. Jordan lets their touch linger, desperately holding onto its promise of bringing back the friendship, easy and uncomplicated, that they have forged over the years.

“I’ve missed you,” Trent says when he lets go.

Jordan hums and lies back down, one elbow nestling the back of his neck, the words he wants to say stuck in his throat.

Trent moves to lie down next to him, and they both gaze absentmindedly at the twilight sky. They talk, casual conversation flowing easily, and the world seems to slowly fall back in place. Trent tells him about the short trip that Ben dragged him into, and they laugh over Jesse's stories at St. George's Park. They discuss Tottenham and tactics, and their hopes for the final, until they drift into comfortable silence, staring at the horizon.

 _The sky looks different in Spain_ , Jordan thinks. Even as dusk quickly sets in, the blue seems much brighter than back home, fading seamlessly into hues of purple and pink that disappear out of sight. The temperature is milder now, the perfect balance of warm and comfortable. Breathable. There's even a light breeze that smells like the ocean, and Jordan gives in to the urge to inhale deeply, feeling instantly lighter. Next to him, he hears Trent breathing in too.

“The sun is almost out,” he says, and Jordan already mourns the imminent loss of that perfect warmth, and wishes time could stand still for a little bit longer. He tries to memorize everything he can, the light and the colors, and the smell of the ocean, and the sound of the waves in the distance.

When he opens his eyes, Trent is looking at him, with raised eyebrows and a playful smile.

“What?” he asks.

Trent snorts in response. “You look funny.”

Jordan shoves his shoulder lightheartedly. “Shut up,” he says, with no real bite, and he scrunches up his nose trying not to smile.

“No, sorry,” Trent is laughing now, rubbing at his shoulder. “I meant… You look at peace.”

Jordan ponders it over. _Is he at peace?_ He doubts it. But he feels better, and that's a start.

Comfortable silence stretches around them once more as the sun goes down. They ought to go inside, dinner is to be served soon, but neither of them moves. When Jordan finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, and the first stars have begun to appear in the darkening sky.

“I’ve missed you too.”

It's a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has made it this far - read, commented or left kudos, I just want to say thank you and I love y'all!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, so here's a long chapter to make up for it. I hope you enjoy!

It's easy to fall back into their old routine.

The next day they wake up at the break of dawn, and the team gathers in little groups around the circular tables in the breakfast room. Jordan struggles to keep his eyes open as Adam and Milner chatter around him, something about politics, he thinks, but he can’t bring himself to focus on what they’re saying.

Outside, the air is already hot and muggy, temperature rising quickly with the threat of another scorching day, and the strong air-conditioning at the hotel makes sweat dry uncomfortably on the back of his neck.

Jordan rests his head on the back of his left hand as he absentmindedly shuffles a fork through the food on his plate, something low fat and protein-packed, carefully selected by the team’s nutritionists, that makes him sorely miss eggs and sausages.

He notices Adam is staring at him expectantly, so he nods his head affirmatively, hoping he didn’t just agree with some weird views on Brexit. Adam frowns.

“What’s up with you today?” he asks kindly. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He knows him well.

“Too hot,” Jordan mumbles. It had taken him ages to fall asleep last night, tossing and turning in bed as his body refused to cool off enough to sleep and his skin prickled uncomfortably, angry red and starting to peel off as it rubbed against the bedsheets.

Adam leaves him be with a sympathetic smile. _Bless him_ , he muses as he goes back to staring at his plate, eyes going out of focus as his body concentrates on wasting as little energy as possible. He doesn’t even notice when Trent sits down across from him until he speaks.

“Good morning,” he greets them, too cheerful for early morning. Trent is never this lively, so Jordan eyes him suspiciously. He goes on to say something but Adam beats him to it.

“And why are you in such a good mood?” Adam asks, his head turning back and forth as he looks between Jordan and Trent. “Did you two swap bodies last night?” He stares into Trent’s eyes intently, making a show of pulling a concerned face. “Hendo, if that’s you, sing some Alicia Keys.”

Trent snorts, and the others join in laughter as Jordan sighs, sitting up a little straighter. He has got a feeling that their teasing is not done, if the mischievous glint in Trent’s eyes is anything to go by.

Trent sets a small brown paper bag on the table between them.

“I bought you a gift,” he says, a smug grin plastered on his face.

Jordan eyes the paper bag eerily like it could explode at any moment. Before he can grab it, Adam cranes his neck and takes a peek inside, snickering at whatever its contents are.

Jordan holds Trent’s stare, squinting his eyes menacingly. He looks entirely too self-satisfied for this to be anything other than a prank, but Jordan still has to bite on the inside of his cheek not to smile. He missed this, he realizes. He missed the banter and the teasing, even at his expense, and he missed the familiarity of it all.

“C'mon, open it,” Trent urges him on.

He takes the bag, looking inside and rolls his eyes, immediately dropping it back on the table with a muffled thump.

“Ah. Ah. Very funny, Trent,” he says deadpanned, and both Trent and Adam laugh loudly.

“What is it?” Milner asks.

Jordan grabs the orange flask, crumpling the paper bag into a ball and tossing it at Trent, who ducks easily. This time, biting his tongue does nothing to hide his own grin.

 _Sunscreen_ , the label reads. _SPF 50+_.

Milly joins the rest of them in laughter and Jordan is thankful that at least his sunburn helps to hide his growing blush.

“Well, we can't let our skipper burn to a crisp, can we?” Trent says mockingly, and Jordan knows he is enjoying this joke way too much. “Although we all admire your commitment to this team, you really didn't have to go as far as turning your skin Liverpool red.”

Trent winks at him and the lads laugh harder. Jordan can't help but join in. He holds a hand over his heart, theatrically.  

“Thank you. I'm very touched by your concern,” he says in a faux solemn voice.

Trent grins. “Anything for you, captain.”

 

*

 

He stands on the sidelines with his arms crossed, watching as some of the boys take turns at practising free-kicks, while the others are scattered across the pitch, lounging around. Klopp had given them the afternoon off, but they still preferred to do some light practice than staying at the hotel and staring at the walls.

Mo's shot passes right by the goalpost, a few inches too wide, and Dejan cackles loudly, making a great show of counting as Mo does push-ups as a dare.

Trent goes next and the boys on the pitch exhale a collective ‘Oooh!’ as his shot hits the top right corner. Trent looks in his direction, smiling sheepishly while rubbing the back of his neck, and Jordan smiles back at him.

“I take it you talked to him, then?” Virgil's low-pitched voice startles him as he seems to materialize out of thin air at his side. Jordan looks at him, confused, and Virgil points at Trent. “I saw you together at breakfast,” he explains.

“Yeah, we talked,” Jordan asserts. He keeps his eyes trained on the action on the pitch, but he can see Virgil nodding from the corner of his eye.

“So, everything is alright? _”_ he asks tentatively.

“We're good. We cleared things up.” He looks at Trent in the distance, high-fiving Ox with a smirk on his face. Happy Trent. _His friend_ , Trent. “We’re friends again,” he says, and he hopes that the bitterness doesn’t seep through the cracks in his voice.

Virgil sighs and puts an arm around his shoulders, rubbing his upper arm affectionately.

“I don’t want to pry or anything if you don’t want to talk about it…” Virgil sounds uncharacteristically hesitant, and he looks at Jordan as if he expects him to stop him at any moment. He doesn’t, so he goes on. “It’s none of my business. I’m only saying this because I love you, man.”

Jordan nods, a small smile breaking through his lips at the taller man’s admission, and Virgil almost seems to give up on what he was about to say, shaking his head with a sigh.

“You're a good lad, Jordan. The best of us, honestly. You give your heart and soul to this team,” he says. “But it wouldn’t kill you to be more selfish, you know. Do what makes _you_ happy, for a change.”

Sometimes Jordan wonders if he's really that transparent or if Virgil is just an exceptionally good observer.

“I can't, Virg.” His response is quick, even though he's not exactly sure what is it that he can't do.

_What would make him happy?_

His treacherous mind goes back to the kiss they shared, but the memory is bittersweet. He still can't shake the feeling of guilt as he thinks back on Trent's eyes lighting up at his own promise— _nothing is ruined_.

“It’s better this way,” he adds, his assertive tone an attempt to reassure himself. “And it's not worth risking our friendship over it, anyway.”

Trent takes another free-kick, and this time he scores, the ball outlining a perfect arch just outside of Alisson's reach and landing into the back of the net. Everyone cheers, and Trent looks at him again, smile widening as Jordan gives him two thumbs up.

Next to him, Virgil chuckles. “Are you sure about that?”

He is not sure of anything when it comes to Trent. But it’s a door he cannot open, not again, when things are just back to normal. The thought makes fear crawl up his throat. _I don’t want to lose him_ , he thinks, as the outcome seems inevitable. Life is no fairytale. And he never did like to lose.

“There’s no happily ever after to this story, I’m afraid.” He doesn’t immediately register that he said it out loud until Virgil answers him.

“Bollocks. You are in charge of your own happily ever after.”

 

*

 

The days in Marbella seem to drag on forever.

The high spirits and easy banter of the first few days are quickly replaced with an increasing nerve-riddled atmosphere as the day of the final approaches.

They train hard, and they study harder, preparation being a complex mix of fitness, mentality, and intellect. They rehearse their tactics, practice set-pieces, and spend hours watching all footage of their last encounters with Tottenham until they have memorized every single play.

They even play a friendly game against Benfica B, a team of Portuguese youngsters, and Klopp manages to make them play like the Spurs. Except they're not the Spurs. They're mostly kids, well-meaning and determined, but still a far stretch from what their real opponents are capable of. They run their plays and win three-nill, but the score doesn't ease the nerves that settle in the pit of their stomachs.

Jordan does his best to keep the spirits high, but he can't help the seriousness that overcomes the team. Even Klopp seems affected. He still laughs and jokes as usual, but his grins are too wide, almost manic, teeth gritting together as tension sets firmly in his jaw.

The last days before the final become blurred in a frenzy of training, plane rides, media duties, and more training, jumping from place to place, all eyes set on their final destination.

Marbella.

Merseyside.

 _Madrid_.

 

*

 

It's 2 a.m. when Jordan gives up on sleep.

He’s spent the last hours lying awake in bed and fiddling with the air-conditioning, the hotel room too hot to sleep without the AC, and too chilly with the AC on.  The bedsheets are scattered all over the fancy carpet, and Jordan huffs in frustration as he mentally counts how many hours of sleep he has left. If he ever manages to fall asleep, that is.

He turns on the TV and the cold blue light illuminates the room as a panoramic view of the Wanda Metropolitano stadium fills up the screen. A man’s voice speaks off-screen, as the image shows the turf surrounded by red stands (albeit the wrong shade of red), and Jordan doesn’t need to understand the language they’re speaking to know that they are talking about the Champions League final.

He quickly changes the channel. Sports news is the last thing he wants to watch now, less than twenty-four hours before the most important match of his life.

He goes through the channels, clicking on the remote with no real focus on what he's doing. Despite his best efforts, his mind still runs a million miles per hour.   _What if we lose again?_ He remembers clearly the road that led them here—the nervous games of the group stage, the thrill of the knockouts, the astonishing comeback against Barcelona. No one on the team will forget that, but for everyone else, it all comes down to the final match tomorrow. 

 _What if we lose again?_ Then, everything they have achieved so far will certainly turn to dust in the collective memory that is history.  No one ever remembers the runner-up.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of several people shouting quickly in Spanish as his zapping stops at some kind of soap opera. Jordan sighs, cutting off the sound with the remote, and he wishes he could mute his brain as well.

He is about to get up to fetch a glass of water from the bathroom when he hears a soft knock on his door. He picks up his discarded shorts and t-shirt from the floor, putting them on before opening the door.

Trent is standing on the other side, hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he looks at Jordan gingerly.

“Can I come in?”  he asks, nibbling on his lip. He doesn't really wait for his answer before barging into his room (or, maybe, Jordan answers enough when he steps aside just slightly). He closes the door quietly, trying not to cause too much ruckus in the quiet hotel.

“It's two in the morning, Trent.” He half expects Trent to be standing just behind him, but he turns around to find him sitting down in the unmade bed, fluffing the pillows against the headboard.

“What are you doing?”

“I can't sleep,” Trent answers. “And before you start complaining, I know you were not sleeping either. I heard the TV.”

Jordan moves to sit on the foot of the bed, where Trent has made himself comfortable, propped up against the headboard with his long legs stretched out before him.

“Can't sleep, huh?” he asks, sympathetically, and Trent shrugs his shoulders, playing with the TV remote. He tosses it in the air with a flip and catches it back again.

“It's too hot,” he complains.

It's as unconvincing as when Jordan reasoned it in his head, and they both know that’s not the real reason they are still awake.

“Right,” he chuckles, and he wonders how many of their teammates are also unable to sleep tonight.

“What are you watching?” Trent asks, pointing at the television.

He turns his neck to stare at the screen for a moment, where an unconscious old lady is being rushed to the hospital in a stretcher, followed by an entourage of hysterical looking women running in high heels.

“I have no fucking clue,” he admits.

He thinks vaguely that he ought to say something. Something inspiring and encouraging, to calm Trent’s nerves. He never lacks inspiration when making speeches to his teammates, on the pitch or in the dressing room, but with just Trent here, it's different. Jordan is just as anxious as any of them, and Trent knows him too well, so he would see right through it.

So, he just sits on the bed next to Trent, staring at the screen absentmindedly. Trent is the first one to break the silence.

“Do you ever imagine what it would be like if we win?” He hesitates, and his fingers brush over a crease in the fitted bedsheet under him. “Like, do you ever imagine yourself lifting the trophy?”

The image is there, clear as day, as soon as Trent utters those words. He has dreamt about it, countless times. He has imagined it as a kid, and in his dreams, he replaced the idols that featured in the posters that decorated his bedroom walls. He imagined it the day he signed for Liverpool, his dreams carrying him to a warm, not-so-distant night in Istanbul, fantasy mixed with the real memories of the nail-biting penalty shoot-out he had avidly followed on the TV. He imagined it the day he made first captain. He imagined it before Kiev. The thought makes him shudder.

“I try not to,” he answers truthfully. “But-”

“You can't help it,” Trent concludes, and they share a guilty smile. “Yeah, me neither.”

Jordan closes his eyes in an effort to block out everything outside and focus on the right things. They made it this far. They have come to Madrid, with a hunger and the desire for more, and they know what to do. Leave everything on the field, no regrets. In the end, whatever will be, well…

“What do you reckon she is saying to him?”

Jordan looks at Trent oddly. He is staring at him, expecting an answer, and his hand has stopped drawing invisible shapes on the bedsheet. Jordan has no clue what he is on about. _Who is she?_

“What?” he asks, confused.

“That girl,” Trent explains, motioning at the TV. “What do you think she's saying?”

The sound is still muted but the screen shows a hospital room where a pretty brunette with kind brown eyes seems to be talking hushedly to a much taller man in a doctor’s white coat. In the background, the same old woman from before lies asleep on the hospital bed.

Jordan shifts his look from the scene to Trent, with a frown.

“How the hell should I know?”

Trent rolls his eyes. “I know you don't, but you can imagine. What do you _think_ they are saying?”

Jordan looks at him weirdly.

“C'mon,” Trent says, with a teasing grin. “Let’s make it into a game. Humour me.”

He understands what he’s trying to do _. A distraction, to take their minds off the match_.

“I don't know... She's asking about the old lady’s condition?” He shrugs awkwardly. _How the hell is he supposed to guess?_

“Boring,” Trent grumbles, dragging out the word. “That's not it at all,” he says with conviction. “She's obviously in love with him.”

Jordan eyes him sceptically.

“She is in love with the doctor…?” he asks with a snort, and he knows by the way Trent squares his shoulders ever so slightly that he’s going to be defensive about it. It never fails to amuse him, the way Trent gets riled up by the slightest challenge, and he tries not to smirk too much in anticipation.

“Well, have you seen how she looks at him?” Trent argues. “Her grandmother is literally lying there in a coma, and she only has eyes for the handsome doctor.”

“And how do you know that is her grandmother?” he teases.

“Hendo...” he tuts, “Let me tell you exactly what is going on.” Trent’s eyes lighten up as he excitedly explains his imagined storyline.

“She's Maria, a beautiful girl from a poor family. Her grandmother—abuelita,” he adds in a terrible Spanish accent that makes Jordan laugh. Trent looks at him through narrowed eyes.

“As I was saying, abuelita fell into a coma, but Maria can't afford the hospital bills. Enter the good Samaritan—Doctor...” He looks at Jordan, as he searches for a suitable name. “Doctor Fernando. He's tall, and handsome, and smart. Oh, and his family is rich, and not only is he caring for abuelita, but he also offered to pay for the treatment.”

“Seems like quite a catch,” he comments with a chuckle.

“Now, Maria fell in love with Doctor Fernando and, obviously, he fell in love with her as well, but they can't be together because...” Trent hesitates, his fingers back at drawing invisible circles on the sheet, as he is clearly trying to make up the story as he goes. “Because his parents want him to marry into high society and would never accept someone from such a modest family.”

Jordan bursts out laughing at the overly dramatic plot, the kind of laughter that rumbles in his chest unexpectedly and makes his head loll back in mirth. He can see Trent smile through his scowl, unsure whether Jordan is mocking him or simply amused. Red tinges the tips of his ears as he finishes, toning down the excitement in his voice.

“Now they will have an unnecessary but highly dramatic argument while looking like they want to rip each other's clothes off, and they'll end up kissing within the next fifteen minutes. This is all very predictable, really.”

Trent shrugs his shoulders dismissively as he ends his tirade and Jordan still hasn't stopped laughing.

“Okay, Mr. Predictable,” he says, buying into the game. “What is she saying then?”

Trent double-checks the screen, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. The girl—Maria, as it seems— is still speaking to the doctor, moving her hands haphazardly.

“Oh, Doctor Fernando,” Trent says, mimicking the high pitch of a woman's voice. He tries to match his speech to the muted character's movements, pausing when her mouth stops moving. “You saved abuelita's life, how can I ever repay you?”

“He didn't save anyone, she's still in a coma,” Jordan says, as a matter of fact, secretly enjoying the way it seems to annoy Trent.

He scowls. “You're ruining the game,” he says, poking at his side repeatedly, and Jordan squirms at the tickling sensation, raising his hands in the air in defeat.

“Fine, fine.”

He watches as TV Fernando flips his hair and flashes a smile fit for a toothpaste commercial. As his lips start to move, Jordan speaks over him in a fake deep voice and the best Spanish accent he can muster.

“You don't have to pay me back. I'm very rich, obviously, and handsome,” he says and Trent snorts. “And I would do anything for you!”

He winces at his lame impression, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. _This is so dumb_. But Trent laughs and follows his cue, and Jordan knows that he is in for the ride.

“Oh, that is so generous of you!” Trent replies as Maria turns her back to the Doctor. “But I can't accept because I'm too proud!” he gasps exaggeratedly.

Jordan focuses on the movement of the Doctor's mouth, and the combined effort of trying to speak in tandem and making up lines as he goes has him breaking a sweat.

“Maria, I must insist. I want nothing in return.” On the screen, Doctor Fernando caresses Maria’s face lovingly and Jordan changes his discourse. “I only ask, if you'd like it, to have dinner with me.”

Trent gasps again. “A date? Oh, but what will your family say?”

“I don't care what they say,” he exclaims, his eyes concentrated on the TV. “They can't stop us! Love conquers all!”

“Oh, Fernando!” Trent clutches his chest, mirroring the girl on the screen. She throws her arms around the Doctor's neck, standing up on her tiptoes and gazing into his eyes. “Your eyes are so beautiful, like pools of endless blue skies.”

Maria's hand drops, brushing over the Doctor's arm and Jordan feels a hand touch his arm, just above his elbow. He looks at Trent and finds him staring right at him, with the same mocking grin.

“And your arms,” he says, still in a high-pitched voice “They are so manly and strong! Such lovely biceps!”

“Thank you! I work out five hours a day,” Jordan answers, and they both dissolve into laughter.

They cry out in surprise as Maria faints in Fernando's arms.

“Your biceps were too much for me!” Trent says mid laughter.

Jordan closes one hand over Trent's mouth, muffling his words. “You're unconscious, you can't talk!”

He doesn’t put up much resistance as Trent struggles to pry his fingers away from his face, while the drama unfolds on the screen. He shakes his head disapprovingly.

“I have fainted but all you do is stare at me. What kind of doctor are you?”

“Shush, she's waking up.” Jordan changes into the fake deep voice of Doctor Fernando. “I woke you up with the power of my mind. I am the best medical doctor in the world.”

On the screen, Fernando holds Maria in his arms, staring into her eyes, noses almost touching.

“See, this is where they kiss, I told you,” Trent whispers. He quickly switches into Maria's voice. “Oh Fernando, I feel so weak. I need oxygen!”

“But where am I going to find oxygen in this big hospital?”

“I guess you are going to have to improvise!”

On the screen, Maria and Fernando lock lips with great enthusiasm and Trent grins smugly as he exclaims “Ta-da!” with a wink that says ‘I told you so’.

Jordan can't help but grin as well, rolling his eyes in an attempt to dispel the awkwardness of the moment. His pulse is racing, and he feels the urge to look at anywhere but the characters kissing on the TV. He is suddenly too aware of how close they are to each other, leaning back together on his bed.

“This is ridiculous,” Jordan says, as he feels himself flushing deeper.

Trent ignores him and gasps in actual shock as the old lady opens her eyes and sits up on the hospital bed, prompting the protagonists to break apart from their passionate kiss.

“Look, abuelita woke up from the coma!”

“Now, who's going to play grandma?”  Jordan asks, grateful for the timely distraction. The image zooms in the characters’ shocked faces as the episode ends in a cliffhanger.

“Next time, we'll get Milly,” Trent replies.

Jordan laughs, but his heart does a strange flip at the mention of a next time. He realizes with a jolt that, for a moment, he forgot about the final tomorrow.

In less than eighteen hours, he will be standing at the center of the field, the faith of the reds behind him, lily-white force before him.  He will kick the ball into play, and they will gamble their fate in 90 minutes. In less than a day, everything will change irrevocably, and, whatever the result, it’s a turning point from which there is no going back.

It strikes Jordan with a sense of melancholy that, out of a million possible outcome scenarios, not one of them involves them coming back to a nondescript hotel room in Madrid and watching the next episode together while doing silly voice-overs.

There will be no next time, and he almost mourns the loss of a reality he’ll never know.

“You think they'll end up together?”

Trent looks distracted, lost in his own thoughts, and he startles when Jordan speaks.

“What?”

“Maria and Fernando,” Jordan explains, feeling his face redden. _Why does he care so much about some stupid soap opera?_

“Obviously,” Trent states, and his tone turns instantly taunting. “As a wise man said, not even ten minutes ago, love conquers all or some romantic shit like that.”

Jordan punches his leg without real force in retaliation, and he looks down, busying himself with picking at a loose thread in his shorts as he tries to hide his now permanently flushed cheeks. _Why did he say that?_ He cringes at his own ridiculousness.

Trent must sense his discomfort because he continues, in a much softer voice, almost serious. “Also, these things always end well. People love happy endings.”

Virgil’s voice flashes through his mind, memories of a conversation held not so long ago, and he struggles to remember the exact words, something about _Trent_ and _happy endings_.  “You are in charge of your own happily ever after,” he mutters under his breath.

“What was that?” Trent asks, and Jordan winces when he realizes he has said it out loud. _Stupid_. He swears his crush is shutting down his brain. _Too late to go back now._

“You are in charge of your own happily ever after,” he repeats, gingerly. “That's what a wise man said to me.”

He keeps his eyes downcast, his gaze resolutely set on his lap, where his hands fidget nervously. The gap between their stretched-out legs is almost inexistent, and Jordan’s muscles are tense and painfully stiff with the effort to keep them from moving and leaning into the warm body next to him.

He can feel Trent's gaze burn a hole on the side of his head.

“Why did you kiss me that night?”

The question catches Jordan by surprise and makes his head snap up, blue eyes meeting brown, his pupils wide and storming with emotion.

He thinks back on all the reasons he had conceived, then. _Because I wasn’t thinking_. _Because I was tired_. _Because I was happy we had won_.

_Because I’m in love with you._

He doesn't say any of those things and merely shrugs.

They look at each other, eyes locked in a wild staring contest, neither daring to disturb the silence around them. His heart threatens to break through his chest, and he is sure that his whole body visibly shudders with the force each thumping heartbeat.

Trent is the first one to let his gaze drop and Jordan is paralysed, counting in his head the seconds until Trent moves away. Except, he never does. Trent’s gaze still lingers on him, eyes fluttering down to his lips with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine. He swallows.

Trent’s face inches closer, almost imperceptibly at first, until there’s no more space left between them, and their lips are pressed together, brushing tentatively against each other.

It feels familiar, yet brand new at the same time—the sweet taste that vaguely reminds him of peppermint toothpaste and something else, something unique, _like Trent_ ; the faded scent of his body wash; the sound of the little whimper that escapes his lips. It overwhelms his senses all at once.

The kiss is short and sweet, and when Trent pulls back, he is smiling. Trent really has the most beautiful smile he has ever seen.

Their foreheads are still touching, and Jordan’s voice is barely a whisper when he asks Trent the same question.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Trent grins wider as he mimics his shrug in response.

A soft laugh escapes his lips, uncontrollable and inescapable, and Trent joins him, bubbles of laughter shaking away all the tension and nervous energy in the room.

They look away from each other, and they prop back against the headrest, side by side. He watches the muted telly in silence, a sense of calmness invading his mind. Jordan keeps his eyes trained on the moving images that advertise brands he has never heard of, but they grow more and more blurred as his eyes lose focus and the commercials are replaced by endless replays of their kiss.

Trent readjusts himself against the pillows and lets his head fall on his shoulder. Jordan listens to the quiet breathing of the man beside him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against his arm. He focuses on the steady rhythm and feels more relaxed than he has been in days.  

It's only when Trent yawns that Jordan realizes, with a jerk, that his own eyelids are drooping.

“Trent,” he says, softly. “You have to go to bed.”

Trent hums and slides down on the bed, his face nuzzling into the pillows, inches from Jordan's thigh.

“Trent,” he repeats, quietly. He gets no response, so he half-whispers. “What are you doing?”

“Goin' to sleep.” Trent's voice is slurred and muffled by the pillow.

“You can't sleep here.” His feeble attempt at a protest fails miserably, undermined by his hushed voice and the fingers that brush softly over Trent’s hairline.

Trent doesn't even open his eyes as he mumbles “But I want to.”

He tries to think of all the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this, but his brain fails to cooperate, for once. All he can think of is how Trent kissed him, and how he smiled at him afterwards, and how he stayed. Because he wants to. And, suddenly, all the reasons they should not don’t seem that important anymore.

“Trent,” he tries one last time, but Trent merely shushes him, and Jordan resigns himself to lie down on his back, hoping he can hold on to the peaceful feeling just a little longer before remorse comes crawling back into his mind. Trent slides an arm across his chest, snuggling against his neck, and Jordan closes his eyes with a sigh.

It takes him exactly forty-five seconds to fall asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this was hard to write and harder to edit. 
> 
> Originally, this was supposed to be two separate chapters, but I decided it made more sense to merge them. Therefore, this story will probably only have seven chapters in total.
> 
> Please feel free to tell me what you think, leave a comment, or just say hi ( i'm also @ si-senor-lfc.tumblr.com )


	6. Chapter 6

There is an odd, paradoxical feeling that precedes every big game. 

There is, undoubtedly, a special buzz at the Wanda Metropolitano that night. Supporters from both teams fill out the stadium, waving flags and banners in a clash of red and white. The fans’ chants echo on the stadium walls, reverberating in a loud roar that seems to make the ground shake. 

The energy that blooms is almost magical, and Jordan should feel overwhelmed by the impending sense that something big is about to happen. 

Instead, he feels calm. 

The nerves he felt building up all week disappear the moment he steps out of the team bus and into the stadium.

Just like that, his reality becomes distorted. His world is a bubble made out of four lines, white over green. Two teams on a field, sharing the same dream. One goal, clear on his mind.

He keeps expecting to feel it all—the noise, the colors, the heat, _the magic_ —but they bounce off his bubble and hang in the air, just outside of his reach, a low hum in the back of his brain. He is too focused on their mission, too grounded to let it really sink in.

It doesn't sink in when they head out for warmup, facing the already packed stadium for the first time.

It doesn't sink in as they wait in the tunnel, nor as he leads his team out onto the pitch, passing by the silver cup in its pedestal without a second glance. They line up on the pitch to the sound of violins and the famous anthem sounds foreign to his ears.

It doesn't sink in as he stands next to Lloris, watching the coin flip in the air and fall to the ground. He stands over the half-way line, he kicks the ball back to Virgil, and the clock starts ticking.

It doesn't sink in when Sadio's cross runs into Sissoko's stretched out arm inside the box, and the ref points to the penalty mark.

Mo kisses the ball, sets it over the mark with nerves of steel, and sends it flying into the back of the net. Two minutes. One-nil. It still doesn't sink in.

They hold on tight to the minimal lead, and they fight to keep the pace—slow, clinical, controlled. They’ve been here before, and they’ve learned their lesson.

But the Spurs come marching in, and they press, and they push on, and they never give up. They are forced back against their will, and they suffer through waves of incoming attacks. Alisson saves them more times than Jordan can ever thank him for, but he will leave the thank-you’s for later because they still have a job to do. And he still doesn't let it sink in.

It starts sinking in at the 87th minute. Milly hits the corner and the ball bounces awkwardly in the box. Joel touches it to Divock and he kicks it into the net, chilled and lethal.

Jordan runs to hug him by the corner and the first sensation that filters through is warmth. In the huddle of his cheering teammates, everything is warm.

And just like that, the bubble bursts.

Noise invades his ears, powerful and deafening. Feeling comes crawling back through his numb fingers. He feels it all now, the ache of his lungs, the pain in his legs, the hope in his heart.

He looks at the stands before him and he sees color, he sees red. His whole world is red.

The crowd grows louder with every minute that passes and he lets the sound in. He knows the song by heart but, for the first time, he feels the words settling deep in his chest, playing to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

_We conquered all of Europe…_

Stoppage time. Any minute, now. The crowd roars but the clock remains stubbornly still, and he wants to scream at the unmoving digits on the stadium screens. Instead, he shouts to his teammates, clapping his hands enthusiastically.

“Go, go, go!”

The crowd echoes his words and they resonate all over Madrid. 

_Allez, allez, allez!_

Ninety-five minutes. Two-nil.

They won.

It finally sinks in, fully and definitively. They won the bloody Champions League.

He cries in relief and exhaustion, in absolution and in ecstasy. He cries as Adam crushes into his side, their tears mixing together as he cradles his head and shouts against his face, “Look how far we’ve come!”. He sees Virgil crying too, and that's a first. But then again, this is a night of many firsts.

The golden medal feels heavier than it looks, hanging off the royal blue ribbon around his neck, and he wonders if the cup is deceivingly heavy too.

He doesn't want to lift it alone, that doesn't feel quite right. He says that to Milly and he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. He says it to Klopp, and his answer is final.

“This is your moment. You’ve earned it.”

It doesn't matter, in the end. Because when he lifts the cup, he is not alone. He has his teammates, his _best_ mates, right by his side, and he has the combined strength of a club, of a city, of millions of fans all over the world.

_You'll never walk alone._

He holds it up high, and his heart explodes like the fireworks and the rain of confetti all around them.

 

*

 

He does it without realizing, at first.

People demand his attention—“Jordan, a quick interview.” They shake his hand, and congratulate him, and pat on his back—“Well done, lad.” But he is distracted, and his eyes keep wandering off around the pitch in the middle of conversations he can’t quite focus on.

He poses for photographs, absentmindedly. He bites down on his medal and he holds the cup on the top of his head (all the dumb things he always swore he wouldn’t do, but now that he has the chance to, he wants to, so badly). But still, he feels on edge and his eyes go searching around, looking at where his teammates are clustered in little groups, dancing to Bobby’s song.

He only realizes what he’s been looking for when he finds Trent among them and his restless heart finally settles down on his ribcage. He watches as Trent jumps around, waving his arms in the air, and he drinks off his blissful energy, because it’s so pure and contagious, and it makes him feel pleasantly light-headed.

Trent notices him staring, and he looks right back, grinning insanely wider. Jordan starts moving towards him, but he’s seized at the last second, a microphone shoved in his face. Trent chuckles and shrugs sympathetically, already turning away to join the fun, and Jordan is left to face the cameras on his own—“Jordan, how are you feeling?” _Isn’t that the million-dollar question._

When they finally speak, it’s Trent that finds him, and Jordan is caught a bit off guard. An arm snakes across his chest and he feels himself being pulled backwards, his back colliding with a solid chest. Trent’s voice is warm in his ear. 

“You led us here,” he says. “I'm so proud of you.” Trent’s nose brushes against his cheek and his lips graze his left earlobe, as he whispers, hot and teasing, “I could kiss you right now.”

Jordan laughs wholeheartedly at the familiar words, and his head falls back on Trent’s shoulder. He turns his head a little to the side so that he can look up at the man still holding him tight against his chest. He sees the cheeky smile and bright eyes, a reflection of his own, shining with happiness and promise and, _maybe_ , a hint of something else. A spark, reserved for Jordan alone.

His pulse quickens, adrenaline pumping through his veins, as he feels it—that spark, travelling through his body. It feels oddly thrilling and soothing; foreign and, yet, like home. He wants to chase it, and it takes him only a second to realize that he doesn't feel scared. Not tonight. Tonight, he can’t lose.

He lets their foreheads rest together for a moment. 

“I love you.” Jordan’s voice is so quiet that maybe the words don’t leave his lips at all. ~~~~

But Trent's arms tighten around him, and he half-wishes they weren't on a crowded stadium with every camera pointed at them. He wishes they were back home, in the deserted dressing room at Anfield, or maybe in his living room, with a game of FIFA paused on the TV, where no one would bother them, and they would have all the time in the world.

They are pulled apart by Trent's brothers who rope him into a family photo. Jordan watches them from a distance, smiling fondly at the happy lot posing with the cup. He watches as Trent hugs his mum, tears welling up in both their eyes, and the sight makes his heart swell. 

He later gets a hug from Trent’s mum too, as she heads his way with a warm smile. He remembers feeling slightly startled when she accosted him before Russia, begging him to take care of her son. He can’t help but feel a little bit guilty now, but she is still smiling kindly and she squeezes him with surprising force for someone half his size.

“I’m so happy for you.”

 

*

  
The celebrations last well into the night. The changing room is utter chaos as they dance and sing and jump over scattered clothes and spilled champagne.

The beer flows freely, and everyone is on the route to joyous drunkenness, Klopp and Alisson leading the way. Jordan doesn’t drink, though. He wants to take it all in. He wants to remember every minute of it. 

They bring the party to the bus, and back to their hotel. The buzz of the celebrations is intermittently interrupted by brief moments of anxiousness as Jordan remembers his reckless confession. It was impulsive and rushed, even though he can’t bring himself to regret it. _Did Trent hear him_?

Any other day and it might be passed off as platonic, the kind of thing they tell each other all the time with a pat on the back— _I love you, man_.

Not today, though. Not when they woke up in the same bed, with their legs slotted together and his chest flush against Trent’s back. Not when they took turns showering in his bathroom, getting dressed in silence, feeling cosy and domestic. Not when they shared a moment, standing on his doorway, where it felt like they might kiss again, before Trent sneaked back to his own room, socked feet padding softly across the carpeted hallway.

Trent is a warm presence by his side all night, and even if they don’t get a chance to talk about it, it’s still reassuring enough. Their arms slide across each other’s backs as they smile for countless team selfies and Trent snuggles against the crook of his neck as they are huddled in celebratory group hugs. Their stares linger a bit too long, a bit too fondly, and they both bite down on their smiles all night.

Their hands brush as Trent passes by him on his way out, and their fingers become tangled, pinkies twiddling together for the spell of a heartbeat.

He catches Virgil watching them from across the room, and the defender winks at him, raising his beer bottle with a wicked grin. Jordan feels his cheeks burning up.

He sees the european champions cup abandoned in a corner of the conference room, and he snatches her on his way up to his room.

(It is a _she_ , they collectively decided at some point during the night. Lady Big Ears.)

 

*

 

“So, you're hiding her to yourself.” Trent’s accusatory tone is softened by his smile and he fakes a reproachful sigh. “Figures.”

Jordan had barely had time to put the cup down and take his trainers off before he heard the familiar knock on his door.

“I'm not hiding her,” Jordan complains meekly as he stares at the cup sitting on the wooden desk. The red ribbons are stained dark from spilled beer and champagne, but the metal is still polished and shiny, reflecting the amber ceiling lights. “It's here for safekeeping. The lads are too drunk, they’ll end up breaking her.” O _kay, he's definitely hiding her._

Trent's smirk tells him that he sees right through it. He doesn't comment any further though, and he moves to trace his fingertips over the embossed letters that stand out on the silver surface.

Jordan watches him for a while, and neither one speaks. He doesn’t bother asking why Trent is here, in his hotel room, when he should be downstairs celebrating with the last standing teammates or trying to get some measly hours of sleep before they have to fly back to Liverpool in the morning.

Trent looks transfixed by the cup, like a cat staring at a shiny object, eyes wide and mouth slightly open in wonderment, as his index finger dances across the mirrored surface, chasing after the elusive refraction of light. It occurs to Jordan that if he could see his own reflection, he would probably look exactly the same.

“I heard you, before.”

Trent still has his back turned to him, but his voice is sharp and unmistakably directed at Jordan.

“Earlier, on the pitch,” he adds. “I heard what you said.”

Jordan gulps and the sound resonates loudly in the room. 

 _So that's why he's here_. He had suspected so, hoped even, but now that he is forced to acknowledge the feelings that rashly spilled from his mouth, he feels his palms start to sweat.

“Did you mean it?”

He feels stuck in place, in the middle of the room, staring at the expanse of Trent’s back, the muscles there contracting and shaking with every drawn breath. His mouth is dry, and when he opens it, no words come out. He closes it again.

“Did you mean it, Jordan?” Trent insists. His voice does not waver, tone hard and demanding, but when he finally turns to look at Jordan, his eyes are swimming with urgency.

“I need to know.” Trent takes half a step forward before stopping abruptly, halting his movements in an effort to restrain himself. “I can’t-” Trent’s stare falters and he says unsteadily, “I’ve held back for so long. Fuck, Jordan, if you don’t want this, if you don’t want _me_ , I swear, just tell me to go and I’ll leave.”

 _No!_ The word echoes in Jordan’s brain, panic flashing in his eyes. Trent stares at him unwaveringly.

“But if you want it as much as I do, I can’t-, I just can’t hide it anymore,” he whispers. “I need to know. Please.”

Maybe it’s the pleading desperation in his voice that makes the last of his walls crumble. Or maybe is the sudden realization that they are standing too close, Trent’s breath grazing his lips. _Did I move_? _Or did he move?_  

Jordan doesn’t know, the outline of the room has long disappeared out of sight, and all he sees is Trent. Sweet, beautiful Trent, staring at him with loving doe eyes. _Do we meet in the middle?_

It feels like they are both suspended in a void, one small step away from falling into the unknown.  He searches within himself for the familiar sense of fear holding him back, but he doesn’t find it. He knows he already fell, a long time ago.

“I meant it,” he says, with surprising certainty. “I want it too.” 

They exhale simultaneously, breath mixing together as relief takes over their bodies, and Trent smiles so earnestly that Jordan’s heart almost leaps out of his throat.

Jordan cradles Trent’s face with a trembling hand, thumb brushing at his jawline, and he marvels at the look of sheer adoration in his eyes. He takes a moment to drink it all in–the soft skin under his thumb, the flushed cheekbones, the pink open mouth.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, and Trent closes his eyes with a sharp intake of breath.

“What are you waiting for?”

He bridges the space between them, and Trent’s lips feel so full and soft, like melting butter under the press of his own. Shaking hands curl against his hips, pulling him closer until they are fully wrapped in each other.

Trent deepens the kiss hungrily, quick tongue pressing against his. He slides his hands under his shirt, and blunt fingernails rake over his skin, leaving moon-shaped imprints on the small of his back. He kisses him relentlessly, hard and needy, and all that Jordan can do is hold on.

They part for breath, panting against each other, and Trent’s hands tighten around his waist, trapping him in their heat, almost as if he is afraid that if he lets go, Jordan will disappear. _It's alright, love. I’m here_.

He seals the silent promise with little kisses that he deposits over the bridge of Trent’s nose, mouth tracing over the pattern of tiny, almost invisible freckles.

_I’m here._

He moves his tongue over his earlobe, rolling it inside his mouth, and he delights in the little whimpers that escape Trent’s lips.

_I’m not going anywhere._

He kisses a line that runs from just under Trent’s ear to his collarbone and sucks softly over the hollow spot at the base of his neck.

_I’m yours._

Trent moans, and fists at Jordan’s hair, pulling him up into another kiss. Jordan loses himself to the feeling of hands scratching over his scalp and down to the back of his neck and the sharpness of the teeth tugging at his bottom lip. He lets himself go along as Trent walks backwards, pulling him and dragging him down, tumbling into the bed.

He holds himself up on one forearm, careful not to crush Trent under his weight, and he drags one finger along his neck, pulling the shirt collar aside to kiss softly between his collarbone and shoulder. He can feel Trent shudder and squirm and he wonders how he has never noticed that he is ticklish.

 _I want to map every single inch of your body_.

He moves one hand down, under the hem of Trent’s shirt, trailing his fingertips lightly over his abdomen, feeling the muscles twitch and flutter. He pushes the shirt further up and replaces his hands with his mouth, leaving wet kisses against his fever hot skin.

Trent peels off his own shirt and kicks off his shoes, before pulling Jordan up, their bodies lining up perfectly over the covers.

“I’ve wanted you for so fucking long,” Trent whispers hotly against his lips, before dragging him down by the back of his neck. This time, Jordan doesn’t find the strength to hold himself up, nor the self-control to continue his slow explorations.  His knees go weak and his blood boils with desire, and he leans his weight to keep Trent trapped against the mattress, their legs tangled together. He can feel Trent’s erection pressed hard against his thigh, and a wave of pleasure shoots across his body.

Trent whines and gasps as he grinds helplessly against his thigh and Jordan feels his own dick hardening in his pants.

He thumbs at the waistband of Trent’s shorts, tracing one finger over the thin line of hair under his navel, and lower, lower until he’s palming at his hard dick over the fabric. Trent hisses.

“Off. Take them off,” he pants.

In one swift movement, Jordan pulls down his shorts and underwear, tossing them aside. He pauses at the sight of Trent’s naked body, the same one he has seen countless times before, but never like this—flushed and pliant under his touch.

Trent shifts and leans up to chase Jordan’s mouth with his own. His hands grab at Jordan’s shirt, pulling it up while he drags his fingernails through his back all the way from his hips to his shoulders.

“Too many clothes,” he mumbles, between hot kisses, his tongue drawing an invisible path across his lips and under the roof of his mouth.

They break apart, just long enough for Trent to pull Jordan’s shirt over his head, and their lips crash back together instantly. Trent moves frantically, squirming deliciously under his weight, his hips rutting up and pressing harder against Jordan’s thigh with each grinding motion.

“God, Jordan. I need-” he whines, breathless. “I want-”

Jordan stills him with a hand over his hip, catching his eyes.

“What do you want, Trent?” His voice comes out husky and short of breath. “What do you want?”

Trent’s eyes darken, and in one flashing moment he rolls them over, pinning Jordan down on the bed. His hips roll down against him as he nibbles on the skin on the side of his neck.

“I want to touch you,” he answers, fingers dancing over Jordan’s hipbones.

“I want to taste you. I want to suck you off,” he adds, as he moves his mouth downwards, leaving a wet trail of saliva across his chest. He looks up at him through his eyelashes, his gaze dark and challenging. “I want to make you come.”

Trent keeps their eyes locked as he flicks his tongue over his right nipple, sending a delicious shiver down his spine.

Jordan has to close his eyes not to come in his pants.

Trent moves slower now that he is in control, and he grins devilishly as he brushes the tip of his nose over Jordan’s stomach, licking and biting on his way down. The tip of his nose drags along the waistband of his joggers, thumbs hooking under the elastic. He pulls down slightly, just enough so that he can see his underwear, leaving them caught around his thighs.

Jordan inhales sharply as Trent nuzzles over the wet spot of precome spreading in the front of his boxers, mouthing against the length of his cock through the cotton fabric. The sensation drives him insane, and he can’t keep himself from groaning, hands fisting at the bedsheets.

Trent removes his boxers and joggers, slowly and teasingly, kissing along the inside of his thighs. He holds the base of Jordan’s cock in his hand, looking up at him, and Jordan swallows hard in anticipation. 

He licks tentatively at the tip, lapping at the precome and spreading it around the head with his tongue.

“Fuck,” he gasps.

Trent smirks and Jordan feels every drag of the curve of his lips against his cock. He inhales sharply as Trent slots his lips over the head and sucks in softly, hollowing his cheeks. His movements are exploratory and messy, but it feels good and hot, so hot.

 _Hot_ is all Jordan can think of as Trent takes him deeper into his mouth, his tongue pressing against the underside of his cock.  He is still gripping at the base of his cock, and Jordan feels entirely enveloped in tight heat. 

“You're so fucking good,” he gasps. Trent hums around the head and his pulse races as he takes in the sight of Trent’s lush pink lips wrapped around his cock, leaving a trail of wetness as he bobs up and down.

Trent peers up at him languidly and Jordan watches him press his left hand over his own flushed cock, stroking in time with the motion of his head. ~~~~

It's all too much, too raw and overwhelming, and Jordan loses all coherent thought. He lets his head fall back on the mattress, mouth agape as he tries to remember how to breathe, the words _fuck_ and _Trent_ slipping out of his lips with every ragged breath. 

He is close, too close, and Trent is doing sinful, wonderful things with his lips and his tongue, and the room is filled with Jordan's moans and the slapping wet sounds. 

His eyelids fall shut as pleasure builds up in his core, and his fingers weave through Trent’s hair. He pulls lightly at the short curls, a small grasp for control. Trent gasps and his cock hits the back of his throat.  

He wants to hold on to this moment, but he can’t. He can’t remember the last time he felt this wired, lit up like a fuse and ready to burst.

“I'm gonna-,” he breathes out, one hand still fisting at Trent’s hair, the other tracing the outline of his cheekbone. “Trent, I can't-, I'm going to come.”

Trent sucks him off harder, swirling his tongue over the head at the same time that he cups his balls in his palm, and Jordan feels the heat in stomach unravel, his mind going blank as his orgasm washes over him with full force. 

When he comes back to his senses, Trent is kneeling back between his legs, looking down at him in awe. They must make a wild view together, all flushed skin, heaving chests, and disheveled hair. Trent’s mouth curves into a smile, and Jordan feels the urge to hold him closer, much, much closer.

He sits up on the bed, reaching out for Trent and pulling him onto his lap. Trent straddles him, and Jordan pulls him closer until his back rests against the headboard and their chests are rubbing together, slick with sweat. 

He kisses him slowly, tenderly, and he tastes himself on his lips.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, as he nudges at the end of Trent’s nose with his own. Trent mewls softly and leans further into Jordan's embrace. 

His hard cock rubs against Jordan’s stomach, trapped between their bodies, and the friction makes Trent whimper. Jordan wraps a hand around him, marveling at how soft the skin is, how _wet_. 

He brushes his thumb over the slit and Trent’s head falls back, body bending backwards in ecstasy. Jordan holds him in place with a hand splayed over the curve of his back. He looks like a renaissance sculpture of a Greek god, all sinewy muscle and sublime curves.

“You're so beautiful,” he whispers.

He strokes his cock in a steady rhythm while he peppers kisses over the line of Trent’s chin and down his neck, over the rise of his Adam's apple, murmuring the word along the way. 

“Beautiful.”

Trent smiles brightly, lips parting in a throaty moan.

He presses their foreheads together and he kisses Trent’s moans away. They pant against each other’s mouths, tongues tangled and bodies folded over each other, as Jordan speeds up his hand.

He can feel Trent start to shake, and he knows he's close when he shuts his eyes and parts his lips, thrusting to meet his fist.

“I love you,” Jordan whispers, as he kisses over his forehead, his cheekbones, the round tip of his nose. 

“I love you,” he whispers again, against his lips, the words spilling out like a mantra, as he strokes faster, swiping his thumb over the head. Trent moans louder. 

“I love you.”

He feels the hot come coating his fingers and spurting over his chest and stomach, Trent's cock pulsing in his hand as he strokes through the last waves of his orgasm. 

Trent collapses against his chest, panting heavily. They stay wrapped in each other's arms as they try to catch their breaths, Jordan's fingers drawing lazy circles on Trent’s back.

He is vaguely aware that sweat and come are quickly starting to dry against their skin and he makes a half-hearted attempt to move.

“Trent, love. We should clean up.”

Trent's arms tighten around him, and he buries his face in the crook of his neck.

“I don’t care,” he mumbles. “I’m not letting you go.”

Jordan chuckles, but he hugs him back tightly, reveling in the feeling of having Trent in his arms.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

 

*

 

Time has a way of cheating the laws of physics, warping and stretching of its own accord. Days can fly by in the space of minutes, and minutes can drag on for days, like those last moments before the final whistle of a match you desperately need to win.

The early daylight starts to filter through the curtains as they lay in bed, basking in the lazy comfort of the afterglow. 

Jordan’s gaze follows a dusty ray of sunshine as it travels through the hotel room to skim the outside of the champions cup, bouncing off the printed letters.

_Coupe des Clubs Champions Européens._

Champions of Europe.

It almost feels like a distant dream, and Jordan has to give himself a moment to let it sink in again.

Trent shuffles sleepily, tucked against his side. He can see their reflection on the shiny metal of the cup, naked bodies elongated on the convex surface.

 _Another dream._ One that might have stood a better chance in a different time and place, in a world that didn't care about footballers' sexualities, and where they could simply _be_. Yet, a dream that happened in this world, anyway.

He wonders if there is a multitude of parallel universes where they can have it all. Would they even meet in all of them? Would they play together for Liverpool? Would they be champions of Europe? Do they find their way to each other, time and time again?

“I can hear you overthinking,” Trent says, kissing his shoulder. And, because maybe he can really hear his thoughts, he squeezes his hand and adds, “We’ll figure it out.” His smile is wide and full of hope. “Together, yeah?”

Jordan smiles back and kisses him softly, mumbling between his lips, “Together.”

He closes his eyes and lets the promise warm his heart and ease his mind. He lets himself hope too, because, for the time being, he has all he wants right here in this universe, imperfect as it may be. ~~~~

“Where do we go from here?” he asks between kisses.

He can feel Trent grinning against his lips, his hands already travelling down his chest.

“We go again.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can’t believe this is done!
> 
> A few farewell notes:
> 
> First of all, I know I promised you eight chapters, but my planning was rather poor, so I ended up with six. I had planned to have one more short chapter, an epilogue of sorts, but I feel this is where this story should end, so I’ll leave that for another time.
> 
> Secondly, and more important, I want to thank every single one of you who left kudos and comments.
> 
> This is the first time I have started to write a fic that I’ve actually finished. It’s a bit of a personal achievement and I couldn’t have done it without your encouragement.
> 
> English is not my first language, as I’m sure is all too apparent, and I apologize for all the mistakes you may have found.
> 
> To all you lovely readers, thank you for going through this with me. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.


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